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Just before the festive season, I encountered an extraordinary situation. I feel it did me good. This occurred at a meeting of several mates, who are, as it happens tooth doctors, but this isn't pertinent. The present party were exclusively male, which proves to be significant.

A Strange Situation

The location was a pub/restaurant doing a brisk business. A wasted daytime was had by all. Nice food, good libations and unexpectedly entertaining tales about oral health. Naturally, the time arrived for excursions to the gents. Those who went, I vaguely observed, appeared to be away a long time. I didn’t dwell on why this could be, but when it was my turn, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what did I discover but a sizeable procession for the men's restroom. No queue at all for the women’s toilet, but a great long one for the gents'. What bizarre turn was this? This was an unfamiliar scene any of us in this gathering were accustomed to.

A Taste of the Norm

Let me state unequivocally, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any woman here. I am acutely cognizant that, for females, being forced to wait to use a public toilet is standard practice. Repeatedly have I seen women queuing in a line while men in the comparable place have to do nothing of the sort?

In addition to the inconvenience of having to queue to use a facility, there’s a hint of indignity about lingering there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was truly enlightening to experience a dose of it myself, watching the opposite gender walk straight through the entrance while I was forced to stand solemnly in queue with my fellow fellas, looking distractedly at something we had in our trouser pockets and checking our mobile devices.

The Practice of Restroom Line Chitchat

There’s a whole style of dialogue here – lavatory line banter – of which men have little familiarity. Ladies, I imagine, have developed skills to be quite proficient at it, engaging in small talk and an interesting comment or two.

On this I’ve consulted some women of my knowledge. The general agreement is that queue-based dialogue is confined to the occasional weary glance and the comment: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the gents'.” A workmate mentioned it’s only at the sinks later that chat tends to begin.

Had I been a woman, I’d waste no time on either small talk or reticence. If I was obliged, over and over, to wait in a shared procession only for the opportunity to use the toilet, I’d rant angrily like there was no tomorrow at the pure inequity of it. A handy metric for any modern culture would be equal waiting times in urination waiting times. I’m looking for studies on this.

Male Banter in the Line

Returning to my queue, I endeavoured to spark some friendly chat flowing about this new state of affairs of ours. I tutted a bit, gave a weary look and said something along the lines of: “Well, this represents an unpleasant difference, doesn’t it chaps?”

Someone grinned, someone else seemed nonplussed, a other man seemed awkward. Yet another shook his head as if this was a further symptom of modern woes, cultural decline etc. For the most part, silence prevailed. A man came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue moved forward a spot. Another two men took a place at the back of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A woman emerged out of the adjacent restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed bashfully at her, endeavouring to convey an understanding of this reversed situation. She said: “Don't come to me for sympathy, you jerk. Come back when you’ve endured this another hundred times and then I might give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said a word. But I know that’s what she was thinking. And I truly would not blame her.